


Medium

by fartedtoday



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-02
Updated: 2016-09-02
Packaged: 2018-08-12 11:39:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7933210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fartedtoday/pseuds/fartedtoday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Love, the unforgiving emotion and experience.<br/>It was non-existent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Medium

 

When he is not participating in the throes of battle, snarking at McCree, or simply, sleeping the day away, he tries experimenting.

 

Pencil on paper.

 

With the pencil gripped tight, Hanzo attempts to render specific bounds of his mind into a physical shape. He does not allow his brain to wander unsupervised.

 

Two curved strokes.

A blade. A smile. The sun that streaks down, bathing him in undeserving light.

A bedtime tale.

 

_Once there were..._

He can barely remember the soothing voice of his mother. Hanzo could almost, but not quite, hear the strong, polite voice of hers, calling his name.

Her presence was never permanent, here now, and gone the next moment. She seemed to know her time was limited, and she spent the majority of it outside, drifting about. The few occasions that his mother stayed and watched over only spiked his anxiety. He would never know when she would leave and never come back. He treasures the few intimate moments he had with her the most.

He can only draw her hair. Long weaves of shadow, providing escape and comfort. He had always admired it. Her eyes always mystified him. He could never properly discern what she was feeling. The interactions between his parents were always filled with stone-faced platitudes.

 

He wills himself to not think about his brother.

 

Another familiar voice soon drowns out the upcoming maelstrom.

 

_How do you ever plan on taking over with your current state? Hanzo. HANZO._

Piercing. Strained from smoke. Curt until the end.

The tone of his father continues to haunt him, loud and clear.

 

He often wonders how his mother and father met.

Hanzo is no fool. The clan was built on security and personal prosperity. Love, the unforgiving emotion and experience. It was non-existent.

 

The pencil, nowadays, is considered an archaic tool of sorts. The proper position that had once come natural to him is now rigid and tight. Discomfort brings him out of his focus. The stiff, wooden chair. The desk a tad too low. He could not afford to dwell.

 

Draw.

Write.

Focus.

 

A scribble.

 

Draw what?

 

He reaches into his mind, searching endlessly, desperately. Something calming. Something distracting.

 

Bow and arrow. No.

His mother’s embrace. No.

Genji...

 

Genji. Genji. Genji. His brother. His brother in his hands. The blade positioned in his hands.

Grip tight.

The act, inevitable.

_NOW._

 

Tears start forming in his eyes, but they never seem to fall.

 

_I forgive you._

 

It’s too late. His mind screams, and his breathing gets shallow. Blood pools into his head as his mind swarms of countless suppressed thoughts. His tongue is dry. It is as though he is drowning, yet he still feels the distinct _hurt_ of his painful breaths.

 

_Dull eyes blink at him._

 

A squeak as he scrambles out of the chair. A stumble as his feet tries to steady on the uneven surface of the floor.

 

Must—

 

He kneels directly at the toilet and waits.

Only dry heaves come. What food could he even empty? The feeling does not end.

 

Breathe...

 

Breathe.

 

_1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7_

_1, 2, 3…11…_

 

When he is eventually able to crash down on his bed, he takes note.

Cross _that_ off the list.

 

His own eyes fight against him as he lies in the darkness. He doesn’t open them.

 

* * *

 

“Hey, you don’t look too good.”

A pause. Hanzo, irritated from the sudden interruption, looks up at the intruder.

“Thank you,” he replies.

McCree kneels right to his level. “No, I mean it. Here, let me get you somethin’ to eat.”

 

Hanzo can only stare distrustfully towards the receding back of the man. What could he possibly want from him? He had been up-playing his demeanor to the most impolite grouch he could muster. Yet still the man remained. Chatting with him. Hanzo could not deny the certain… rugged look that appealed to him. But thoughts of those were quickly met with fierce denial. The approval of his father still rings throughout his brain. Being with another man? Unspoken of. A mantra to never be forgotten. His life built upon his words. Even if he was the one that eventually abandoned the clan, his entire upbringing was surrounded by his father. It will always be a part of him.

 

Snapping out of his thoughts, he finds McCree staring at him with a grin plastered on his face.

“Thinking ‘bout me?” 

“Definitely not,” Hanzo says with a scowl.

“Yeah, yeah. You keep telling yourself that. Here, eat up.” McCree pushes the bowl of food towards him.

Hanzo scrutinizes the bowl then looks back at McCree.

“What? I’m not leaving ‘til that bowl’s empty.”

 

Hanzo grumbles. Using the chopsticks McCree _gracefully_ provided, he takes a small bite of the rice dish. His hunger reappearing suddenly, he begins devouring the bowl at an impossible pace.

“Slow down, pal,” voices McCree, light and playful.

“...Apologies. That was disrespectful,” Hanzo tries to recompose himself. “Thank you for the meal... Jesse.” He gazes up at McCree.

 

McCree’s eyes go wide for a moment before he lets out a laugh, his whole body visibly shaking.

Hanzo sits there bewildered. He dutifully ignores the pang in his heart at the sound.

“What is it?”

 

McCree stops laughing almost as soon as he started, and he smiles.

He leans over, _closer_ , and flicks a grain of rice off Hanzo’s chin.

 

“What would you do without me?” McCree asks with another one of his grins.

“Die, I’m guessing.”

 

* * *

 

Watercolours.

 

It is certainly odd. As his brush paints more strokes, he can’t deny the feeling of serenity that passes over him. It is easy enough to leave the colourful marks, but his mistakes are undeniably visible.

 

The blend of pigments drip..

drip...

Down the page.

 

He doesn’t know what he’s making. No plan, no procedure. It’s discomforting, but manageable.

Instead of letting his mind do the work, he controls the brush with slow, undeliberate strokes.

It doesn’t get him anywhere.

 

Hanzo looks down at the sheet and frowns.

The colours start to blend into a blurred and smudged grey, and accidental drops of colour dot the blank space.

The paper he’s using is probably not properly cut out for this type of paint, he admits to himself.

One colour was still somewhat vibrant against the peeling grey. A bright green.

 

It was useless to resist. His thoughts always seem to come back to his brother.

Genji, a blur of motion and vibrancy. Like their mother, Genji was never still within the clan, and spent most of his time who knows where.

Even though his movements were unpredictable and quick, it was still done with grace, an oxymoron bundled into an ever-positive brother.

Genji was a constant. Constant motions against the changing world, including the deaths of their parents.

 

Hanzo needed Genji, but Genji didn’t need him.

 

No one was particularly fond of Hanzo, himself included. He made sure to give everyone the appropriate amount of respect, but other than that, he had nothing to say. His mind roared with feelings and thoughts, but he couldn’t ever put it into words.

 

An insignificant, specific memory was brought to mind.

They were ordering drinks at a stand.

 

_Hanzoo, get me a medium!_

_...Alright. But wouldn’t it be better to just get a large? Looking at the prices, it seems to be the better option, cost-wise._

_Well, it's your money._ _What—I’m kidding!_

_Jeez, Hanzo, I’ll pay you back later, ‘kay?_

_No... it’s fine._

 

It was a simple moment, but they barely spent time together after their parents’ passing. Genji seemed to be gone from the house all the more often. Hanzo was left to deal with the clan’s business, alone.

Hanzo ended up with a quarter-unfinished drink, discontent as he was forced to carry it, stubborn to not let it go to waste. Genji skipped happily by, satisfied with his beverage.

 

_Told you Hanzo._

_You told me nothing._

_Hanzo couldn’t help but to smile at Genji’s carefree demeanor._

 

Hanzo blinks.

Tears once again form at the corner of his eyes, but they don’t fall.

 

He sighs.

His… painting lies on the table, its ‘unique’ beauty unchanging throughout Hanzo’s daydream.

 

The green is a little muddier, at least.

 

* * *

 

They are in McCree’s room.

Hanzo can not think very clearly. His mind is in drift, stretched by the large amount of alcohol in his system.

McCree seems to handle Hanzo like a fragile vase, but he can’t bring himself to struggle and complain.

Besides, the man’s embrace is… nice.

 

“Oh, Hanzo.” McCree looks down into Hanzo’s watery eyes.

“Mhm.”

_Honour. Precision. Agility. Insight. Sleepy.. McCree.._

“You don’t know what you do to me.”

McCree’s sincere tone snaps him out of his haze.

_I really don’t._

McCree sits down on his bed, still cradling Hanzo throughout his drunken state.

 

Their lips touch.

 

And just like that, the tears flow down.

A sniffle escapes him.

The tears don’t seem to stop.

 

“H-hey, what’s wrong?” McCree’s voice falters.

“Sorry, I’ll just—,” McCree begins to move away.

Hanzo desperately grasps back on to his arm. “No, no, it’s not that.”

“It was… nice,” Hanzo gingerly admits.

Hanzo continues to cling to McCree, tears still spilling from his eyes.

 

“Hey, it’s okay.”

 

“It’s okay.”

 

_It’s okay._

 

Deep down, Hanzo knows he will never be deserving of McCree.

His time is limited.

 

* * *

 

It all comes in a blur.

 

Hanzo—distracted by thoughts of McCree… again.

After the _incident_ , they haven’t really been together often. But McCree still smiles deeply at him whenever they meet.

It was nice to have the man to think about for his mind to dwell on. He feels guilty about reducing McCree to some life form he leeches on to feel better about himself. But, McCree enjoys his company as well… right?

 

He should have been keeping protective watch.

Lives are depended on him.

His focus was compromised, and it was his fault.

 

The only thing he’s good for, the only thing people ask of him.

 

A failure.

Always ending up hurting the people near him.

 

A gunshot to McCree’s thigh.

A scream of pain.

 

“Huh..?”

 

Darkness.

 

* * *

 

Blood.

 

Hanzo spends the remaining days in his room.

Huddled into a corner. Shaking, but soon left just lying there.

His energy deteriorates.

 

McCree is still alive, recovering in the infirmary.

 

No one comes, but Hanzo doesn’t expect anyone to.

McCree seemed to trigger his sudden capability of producing tears.

They won’t stop.

 

He can’t bring himself to suppress anything.

 

_Genji, McCree…_

_Mother…_

_How do you plan on taking over?!_

_You pathetic excuse of a son._

_Go cry to your mother._

_...two dragons, one green and one blue._

_Get out._

_GET. OUT._

_Do it for the sake of the clan._

 

_Don’t leave me here like this._

 

_You need to forgive yourself._

 

_I_

_hate_

_you._

 

Hanzo doesn’t know how many days pass. He coughs out blood every few hours. His hands feel brittle and his legs _ache_.

 

He is done thinking.

 

Hanzo gets up.

 

He looks in the mirror and sees a hollow husk. Bloodshot eyes. A constant groan as his body moves.

 

He uses the little energy he has left to organise the few possessions he has.

A picture of him and Genji lies on top of the makeshift pile.

 

He kneels in front of the window and pauses.

 

_Genji,_

_McCree,_

_Mother…_

 

His last words.

“ _Fuck_ you, father.”

 

He raises the blade and slits his throat.

 

And as the deep crimson gushes out,

spreading across his garments,

dripping towards the floor,

 

Hanzo can’t help but admire the image.

The dark red melding into the cold, pale, ceramic tile.

 

An unrecognisable insignia on the floor, Hanzo’s last gift to this world.

The blood continues spreading, splattering the blank canvas of his life.

 

 

His best work.

 

Truly a masterpiece.

 


End file.
